


wind it up (it has no weights)

by ellenm (quasiradiant)



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-14
Updated: 2011-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-20 10:14:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quasiradiant/pseuds/ellenm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brittany’s never been slushied and she’s out to remedy this oversight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wind it up (it has no weights)

**Author's Note:**

> we'll kiss each kiss other on kiss the kiss  
> lips because tic clocks toc don’t make  
> a toctic difference
> 
> [title/quote from ee cumming’s “9.”]

Santana’s eyes are closed, but she can feel a shadow pass across her.  This is, obviously, extremely annoying.  After all, Lima only gets fifteen minutes of decent sunlight a day—even during the summer—and if Santana wants to keep her super-hot tan, she has to take advantage of every second of it.

 

“Seriously, Mom,” Santana says through clenched teeth.  “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand—”

 

“That’s a weird thing to call me.” 

 

Santana opens one eye and then the other.  “Hey, Britt.”  Brittany is backlit, and the sun is magnified through her hair.  Santana squints.  “You giving up on your tan this year?”  Tanning time is sacred, but Santana can’t be mad at Brittany’s interruption.

 

“Oh, no,” Brittany says earnestly as she sits down on the chaise next to Santana’s.  “I’m so busy in the afternoon, though.  So I had a better idea.”

 

“Have you been going to that new tanning salon?” Santana pushes herself up, turning to sit cross-legged on the chaise. 

 

“No, I’m broke,” Brittany says.  “Lord Tubbington lost his job at the factory, you know.”  She rubs the corner of her eye like she’s going to cry, and Santana knows enough to just let the moment pass.  Brittany squares her shoulders, her mouth losing its sad little shape, and says, “I thought to myself, why run home to tan in the middle of the afternoon? Now I just _sleep_ in the backyard.”

 

“But the sun has to be out, Brittany.  For you to get a tan.”  Santana tries to keep her face neutral.  Brittany can’t help it if occasionally she sounds like a lunatic.

 

Brittany screws up her forehead.  “No, Santana.  I don’t think that’s right.”  She sets her jaw, and Santana knows not to argue.  Instead, she notices the cup in Brittany’s hand.

 

“I didn’t know you were into slushies.”  The very sight of the cup brings back horrible memories for Santana.  She can vividly recall the feeling of the impossibly cold syrup sticking to and seeping through her eyelids, pooling in the dip of her earlobe, dripping down to soak through her bra.

 

Brittany looks down at the cup like she’s a little surprised to see it there, but then she smiles.  “I’ve been thinking,” she says, looking up deviously through her eyelashes.

 

Half the results of Brittany’s I’ve-been-thinking moments, in Santana’s estimation, are seriously terrible.  But the other half are pretty freaking great, so Santana says a little cautiously, “Oh yeah?”

 

“Uh huh.”  Brittany leans forward like she’s going to tell a secret, but all Santana notices is that from this angle she can see right down Brittany’s shirt to the polka dotted bikini she’s wearing underneath.  “It started because I realized that I feel really left out of Glee.”

 

“Why?”  Santana tries to concentrate on Brittany’s face and not on her tits, like a good friend and not a pervy lesbian. 

 

“I’m the only one who hasn’t been slushied.”  She pouts.  “Lauren has at least slushied somebody else, which kind of counts.  I’m like,” she drops her voice to a tiny whisper.  “I’m like a slushie _virgin_.”  She looks down at her lap, blinking furiously.  This is clearly really upsetting to her, Santana can tell, and not just because she has a serious problem with virginity.

 

“Brittany, trust me, this is the _good_ kind of virginity.  Getting slushied really sucks.”  Santana untucks her legs and leans towards Brittany, reaching out to touch her knee.  Brittany looks up, eyes sparkling.

 

“Everybody says that.  But, like, how would I know?  You could all be lying to me.  And anyway,” Brittany goes on, probably when she notices Santana about to argue about the lying thing, “I want to be a part of the group, even when we lose or when other bad stuff happens.”

 

Santana sighs, because sometimes Brittany is so amazing it literally hurts Santana.  “Okay, but what’s the cup for?”

 

Sometimes Brittany’s emotions are impossible to keep up with.  Her face melts from that gut-stabbingly adorable frown to the brightest grin Santana’s seen in a while.  This is going to be a really, really great idea.

 

“I think it’s time.  For me to experience it.  It’s been two years!”  Brittany takes the cup and thrusts it towards Santana. 

 

Santana just eyes it warily, like it might bite her.  “Excuse me?”

 

“I want you to slushie me, Santana,” Brittany says, shaking the cup a little bit to get Santana to take it. 

 

Santana leans back so ungracefully she almost falls off the lounge chair.  She gets to her feet on the other side, putting the chaise between her and Brittany.  “Absolutely not.  That’s so gross, and it’ll get your clothes all dirty, and it’s awful, and just no!”

 

Brittany stands up, too.  She puts the cup on the table where Santana’s glass of Diet Coke is busy sweating in the afternoon heat, and then she pulls off her teeshirt.  As she starts to unbutton her jean shorts, Santana understands the bathing suit.

 

“See!”  Brittany beams, standing there in what may be the most scandalous bikini Santana’s ever seen.  Obviously Brittany’s been holding out on her.  “My clothes’ll be fine.  And you can clean me off with the hose afterward.”  She’s spent a lot of time thinking about this, Santana can tell.

 

“I don’t know, Britt,” Santana says.  She bites her lip.  Once Brittany’s set her mind to something, she’s almost impossible to stop.  Sometimes, it’s easier to just give in than it is to fight with her.  “Are you sure?”

 

Brittany turns on her puppy-dog eyes, the look she knows Santana can’t resist.  She nods.  “C’mon, San.  You’re the only person who’ll help me.”

 

They hold each other’s gaze for about a thousand years before Santana finally huffs out a sigh.  “Okay! Okay.  But you have to promise not to get angry at me.  I don’t think this is a good idea.”

 

Brittany nods and claps a little before grabbing the cup from the table.  “I promise!”  She holds the slushie out to Santana, and this time Santana takes it.  It’s a little melted, and it sloshes around inside the cup menacingly.  But Santana’s a sucker for Brittany, and if Brittany wants the full slushie experience, then Santana will just have to oblige.

 

Brittany leads her out to the middle of the yard, where there’s nothing stainable.  Brittany is barefoot in the grass, and her legs go from the earth to the sky in that bikini and Santana doesn’t stare because, hello, _not_ a perv.

 

“Okay,” Brittany says.  “Any advice?”

 

Santana thinks.  “Um, close your eyes.  And don’t breathe it in.”

 

Brittany nods and screws her eyes shut.  Santana can see the muscles of Brittany’s stomach tense as she steels herself.  “I’m ready,” she says.

 

Santana doesn’t give herself a chance to second-guess this ridiculous freaking plan.  She takes the cup and with a well-practiced jerk of the wrist, sends the slushie flying.  It makes a direct hit with Brittany’s face, and she makes this awful little squeak and Santana cries, “You told me to!”

 

Brittany stands there for a long moment, lips pressed together and nose twitching as the cold liquid drips down her face.  Santana’s frozen, too.  She just drops the cup and stands there feeling like the sky’s about to fall until suddenly Brittany is—

 

Brittany is laughing?  She’s laughing and wiping the slushie from her eyes and pushing a few wet tendrils of hair out of her face.  “Oh San!” she laughs, “That was so disgusting.”

 

Santana can’t help but laugh at Brittany, dripping purple from the tip of her nose and sticking out her tongue to try to lick it off.  “I told you it was gross.  You should have listened to me.”

 

“No,” Brittany says.  “I’m smarter than you, remember?  You said so yourself.  This was the best thing that’s happened to me all day.  All week!”  Slushie drips down her neck, and Santana smiles, shaking her head.

 

“You’re crazy,” she says.

 

“Am not,” Brittany says, and then she licks her lips.  Brittany wipes a bit of slushie from her shoulder and instead of flicking it into the grass, she sticks out her tongue and licks it off instead. 

 

Something changes in the air, like the earth falling off its axis, and the sun is suddenly about a zillion degrees hotter.  Santana thinks she remembers breathing once, but now she’s forgotten how to do it as she watches Brittany suck the slushie from each of her fingers.

 

When her hand is apparently clean enough, Brittany reaches it out and crooks a finger.  Santana takes an almost involuntary step forward.  Brittany doesn’t look away as she takes Santana’s hand in hers and places Santana’s palm against the cold skin over Brittany’s collarbones.

 

“You said you’d help me clean up after,” Brittany says, her voice all low and very un-Brittany-like.  Somewhere in Santana’s head a voice screams ‘hey! she fucking planned this the whole time!’ but it’s a very small voice in a very distant corner of her mind and it’s actually really easy to ignore.

 

“Yeah,” Santana says, and she sounds like a total idiot.  All these years playing the talented slut who gets all this crazy practice, but when it really counts, she has as much game as the garden gnome staring at her from near the fence.

 

“Santana?” Brittany cocks her head to the side, as hot and adorable as Santana’s ever seen her.  “Are you confused?” she asks, very sympathetically.

 

“No!” Santana says, voice a fierce whisper, even though Santana doesn’t know who she’s worried might overhear them.  It’s the middle of the afternoon at the end of June and everybody in the neighborhood is at work.  “It’s just,” she starts but can’t finish.

 

“It’s okay,” Brittany says, smiling like she’s never worried about anything in her entire life.  And then, Brittany takes Santana’s hand—the one Santana had almost forgotten Brittany was holding—and slides it down from her collarbones until Santana’s hand is cupping one of Brittany’s unbelievably amazing breasts.

 

Brittany holds Santana’s hand there with one of hers, and then reaches for Santana’s other hand.  Brittany carefully uncurls it from the tight fist Santana didn’t even know she was making and then presses Santana’s hand against Brittany’s hip.

 

They stand there—Santana’s hands held firmly between Brittany’s hands and Brittany’s incredible body—until Santana’s finally able to meet Brittany’s eyes.  Brittany’s still smiling, and Santana finally says, “But I thought—” 

 

Except, she isn’t sure what she thinks.  _I thought you hated me.  I thought you were straight.  I thought you were still in love with Artie.  I thought I’d never be close to you again._

 

Brittany leans in closer to Santana, close enough that Santana can smell the fake grape of the slushie and a little of Brittany’s citrus conditioner.  “That’s your problem,” she says, mouth so close that Santana’s head spins.  “You think way too much.”

 

Brittany leans forward and then there’s only the barest fraction of an inch between them and Santana hesitates.  Brittany lifts the hand from her hip and slides it up Santana’s back until her fingers are cool against the hot skin at the base of Santana’s neck.  She looks at Santana with wide, sparkling eyes and then she puts a little pressure on Santana’s neck, pulling her forward.

 

 _Brittany kissed me_.  Santana hears it like some part of her mind is narrating the whole thing.  It’s not like they haven’t kissed before—not like they haven’t done way more than kiss before—and let’s be honest, it was pretty freaking good back then, too.  Actually, Santana has trouble imagining anybody in the whole world that would be immune to Brittany’s mouth.

 

But it’s different now, because Santana doesn’t have to pretend like it doesn’t mean anything.  Like she’s too fucking cool to be a human being for a minute.  Now, she can feel the spark of excitement in her belly and the bright flash of warmth in her chest and the prickle behind her eyes that almost feels like the moment right before tears.

 

It’s a kiss with _feelings_ , she realizes.  And she’s discovering that kissing with feelings isn’t just a little different.  It’s so much fucking better that Santana is worried that her head might explode from the pressure of _wanting_ Brittany so damn bad.

 

Brittany’s mouth is summer and cotton candy, hot and sugar sweet.  Santana flicks her tongue out against Brittany’s lower lip and Brittany moans somewhere low in her throat and the sound makes Santana’s hands clench involuntarily.  So she has a tight handful of Brittany’s breast and her nails are digging into Brittany’s hip. 

 

Brittany hisses, but not in pain.  Her hips jump forward, and her hands drop to Santana’s ass.  She pulls Santana’s hips up and in, urging Santana up on her toes to meet Brittany’s extra height.  Their breasts touch, their bikini-bared stomachs touch, Brittany’s thigh presses just a little between Santana’s, nudging Santana’s knees apart.

 

“Oh San,” Brittany whimpers into Santana’s ear.  She kisses that live-wire place just below Santana’s earlobe, completing some circuit in Santana’s crotch.  Santana groans and whispers a _fuck_ between clenched teeth.

 

Brittany uses the fact that Santana’s a little off balance to walk her back to the lounge chairs.  When Santana’s calves hit the edge of the chair, Brittany releases her grip on Santana’s butt and Santana plops down ungracefully onto the chair.

 

Santana laughs despite herself, and Brittany smiles.  She’s backlit again from Santana’s position, and now—hair wet with grape slushie—Brittany looks like a  lifeguard reaching out and saving Santana from drowning.  Santana takes Brittany’s outstretched hand and pulls her down, which is strange, Santana thinks, but maybe this is a kind of saving, too.

 

Brittany’s knee drops to the lounge chair between Santana’s thighs.  Brittany leans down to kiss Santana, and when she does it, slushie drips off her and onto Santana’s chest.  Santana yelps in surprise because, hello, it’s really cold.

 

“Sorry,” Brittany says.  “I forgot.  And you didn’t do a very good job cleaning me up.  My bathing suit is _totally_ ruined.”  She _tsks_ and leans back a little.  She reaches behind her.  With one hand, she undoes the knot holding her halter top up, and with the other, she undoes the clasp behind her back.

 

She tosses the bikini top into the yard.  “I’m gonna have to get a new one.  You _totally_ owe me now,” Brittany says.  She leans forward, breasts dangling like some kind of ripe, aphrodisiac fruit.  Brittany catches Santana staring and smiles wickedly.

 

“Yeah?” Santana asks, sounding like a total idiot.  Except she’s really distracted, and she’s pretty impressed she even came up with that.

 

“Uh huh,” Brittany nods.  She leans closer to Santana, dangerously close.  Her back is arched and her stomach grazes Santana’s.  She kisses the corner of Santana’s mouth.  “Any ideas for how you might repay me?”

 

Santana entertains a moment of indecision, mostly because she is still in total disbelief that Brittany’s here for what Brittany is _obviously_ here for.  Brittany may be oblivious—Santana can think of at least ten times when Brittany has unknowingly sent a Glee boy fleeting from the choir room to deal with a Brittany-inspired boner—but not _this_ oblivious, obviously.  But after everything from the last few months, what the hell is Santana supposed to think?

 

She was pretty sure they’d come to a _much_ different decision about their relationship.  Not that this is _bad_ , of course.  Just very hard to consider rationally, especially when Brittany is doing that totally unimaginable thing with her tongue against Santana’s neck.

 

Brittany lifts her head.  “So?”

 

“Brittany—” Santana starts, but there’s this awful flicker in Brittany’s eyes, like she’s beginning to think she really fucked up.

 

Brittany flicks her gaze to the yard and tilts her chin down.  “I’m here,” she says, very deliberately.  “With you.  Because I want to be.  Here with you.”  She swallows hard—Santana can see the movement of her throat—and then says, “ _With_ you.”

 

When she looks back, Santana is smiling.  Santana lifts her hands to Brittany’s hips, grip firm.  “Okay,” Santana says.  “Then I think I might have an idea.”  She lifts her head to whisper against Brittany’s ear.  “Let me show you.”

 

Brittany makes a noise in her throat.  Santana slowly sits up, pushing Brittany up as she does, until Brittany’s back up—one knee on the chaise and one foot in the grass—and both of Santana’s feet are firmly back on the ground. 

 

Santana stands.  There aren’t many times when she’s taller than Brittany, but this is one of them.  Brittany looks like a piece of artwork, chin lifted and mostly naked and glittering in the sunlight.  “Christ,” Santana breathes, because _look at her_.

 

She puts her hands on Brittany’s shoulders, turning her a little and encouraging her back onto the chaise.  Brittany resists a little, but Santana says, “Trust me,” and Brittany relaxes.  Santana guides her back onto the lounge, laying her flat back against the towel covering the plastic straps.

 

Santana _did_ promise to help Brittany clean up, and it seems only fair she keep up her part of the bargain.  She puts a knee to either side of Brittany’s thighs and leans down.  She licks a long trail up Brittany’s neck—Brittany’s perfect, exquisite, irresistible neck.

 

Santana knows she’s totally fucking head over heels for this girl, because why else would she be able to conjure up so many adjectives for Brittany’s _neck_ , for God’s sake.  But it _is_ perfect and exquisite and irresistible and a thousand other words the dictionary hasn’t even thought up yet. 

 

And the way that Brittany tilts her head back and groans at the touch of Santana’s tongue is seriously hot. 

 

Santana kisses Brittany.  Like she means it—she’s still not sure she’ll ever get this chance again and she wants to remember the shape of Brittany’s teeth and the texture of her tongue and the taste of that spot just inside her lips.  The kind of kiss where time feels like it stops but it’s just that you’ve totally forgotten to breathe and you’re possibly dying from a lack of oxygen.

 

And the kissing is beyond fantastic, but now that Santana’s decided Brittany is serious about this, there are a _lot_ of things Santana wants to do.  She kisses a line down from the corner of Brittany’s mouth, across her shoulder, and down her arm.  She kisses each of Brittany’s fingertips—a little rough from too much time trying to perfect her vault at gymnastics—and she can feel Brittany’s thighs tensing between her own.

 

It’s strange, Santana can’t ever remember doing this, kissing Brittany’s palms, the inside of Brittany’s elbows, the perfect freckle just below Brittany’s right breast. 

 

If you had asked her yesterday, Santana would have told you that, sure, she and Brittany had gone all the way.  But she suddenly realizes that, there are a million things she didn’t really do before, back when it was about getting off and not thinking about feelings.  Like, she’s never taken the time to _really_ admire Brittany’s really exceptionable rack or to feel the way Santana’s fingers fit perfectly into the dips between Brittany’s ribs or to run her tongue across the little scar on Brittany’s hip that she got when she was eight and really failed to learn to ride a bike.

 

In fact, she’s never spent nearly enough time with her mouth on Brittany’s skin, and Santana thinks that’s part of why Brittany came up with this whole stupid slushie plan.  Santana repositions her knees between Brittany’s and scoots down so she can trace the little lines of melted slushie down the carved lines of Brittany’s abs. 

 

Brittany’s head falls back when Santana’s tongue dips into Brittany’s bellybutton.  “ _San_ ,” she whines.  “Please.”

 

“Please what?” Santana teases.  Brittany huffs in annoyance and tilts her hips forward, toward Santana.  “I threw the slushie at you, I helped you clean up.  What more could you want?”

 

Brittany picks her head up then and really _looks_ at Santana, looks right into her eyes and straight inside her.  Santana feels like Brittany knows everything about her, knows how she feels and what she thinks and finally she says, “Santana,” very seriously.  “Don’t make jokes.”  She hesitates.  “Not _now_.”

 

Santana can feel her cheeks get hot in sudden embarrassment.  Sure, she hides discomfort with bitchy humor, but Brittany doesn’t really deserve that.  Not after everything Santana has put her through, everything Santana has unloaded on her.  Not after she came here and did all of this.  Brittany hasn’t always been right, but she’s always been kind.

 

“Yeah,” Santana says.  “Okay.”

 

Santana wants this to go on for the rest of the afternoon—or maybe for the rest of her natural life, like maybe all the clocks in the world have come unwound—but there’s something she wants to do more, and that’s make Brittany happy.  Unbelievably, brain-meltingly happy, the kind of happy they talk about in Valentine’s cards, cheesy romantic comedy happy—and if that starts with showing Brittany just how perfect her body is and how good you want to make her feel, well, that’s okay, too.

 

Santana hooks her fingers under the skinny little band of Brittany’s bikini bottom.  Brittany lifts her butt a few inches so Santana can slide the bottom down Brittany’s legs.  When it’s far enough down, Brittany kicks the bottom to join the bikini top in the grass.

 

And then she’s naked.  Totally, insanely naked in the afternoon sun and she is tanned and toned and long and lean.  Santana wants to look at her forever, but, you know, _parents_ might reappear and ruin everything.

 

So she leans down and kisses a spot on the inside of Brittany’s thigh.  It’s a spot Santana has touched before, but now she’s absolutely sure it’s the best spot in the world, the best inch of skin that has ever existed on a person’s body. 

 

Brittany whimpers and hooks one of her legs over Santana’s shoulder, pulling Santana down closer to her pussy.  Santana feels a little shock of nervousness shoot through her—they’ve only done this a couple of times because it always felt too, well, _intimate_ —but it’s pretty much overwhelmed by the almost painful way it turns Santana on to see Brittany like this, to smell her. 

 

She flicks her tongue out to complete the sensory experience. 

 

Brittany is wet and her clit is swollen and the way she tastes reminds Santana of hot breezes and saltwater taffy.  Santana wants to remember it clearly, just in case this never happens again.  She wants to remember the taste, and the way Brittany’s butt lifts off the towel towards Santana’s mouth, and the way Brittany puts a hand to the back of Santana’s head and says, “Oh, Santana.”

 

Santana tries to take her time so she’ll be able to remember the slick shape of Brittany’s clit and the swell of her pussy lips and the really magnificent thrust of Brittany’s hips.  Santana had always been worried about this, thought it was too much and too close and way too trusting.  But now it’s life-altering, the way Brittany moves under Santana’s mouth and the way that Brittany’s voice drops half an octave when she pleads for more.

 

One of Santana’s hands is on Brittany’s ass, pulling her in closer, and Santana knows Brittany is going to come when the muscles under Santana’s hand tighten and Brittany’s leg jerks against Santana’s shoulder.




 

Santana rides Brittany’s orgasm out locked between Brittany’s tight thighs, kissing the soft skin of the inside of Brittany’s legs.  A million blissful years later, Brittany’s legs relax and Santana slides back up her body to kiss Brittany’s mouth.

 

“Mm,” Brittany hums.  Her eyes are closed and she’s smiling.  Her hair is half-dry and stained a little purple, and her skin is sticky where the slushie has evaporated. 

 

“You’re going to need that hose after all,” Santana says, touching a sticky spot.  She’s leaning over Brittany and she doesn’t really want to move, so she doesn’t.

 

“Mhm,” Brittany says.  She opens her eyes and they’re happy but they’re also wet, like maybe she’s about to cry.

 

“What’s wrong?”  Santana brushes a thumb across Brittany’s cheek.  “Did I—”

 

Brittany shakes her head.  “No!  You’re awesome.”  It’s the most Brittany-esque thing to say that Santana can imagine: in Brittany speak, _awesome_ is the highest compliment a person can get.  “I just.”

 

She reaches up and touches Santana’s face and then Santana’s neck and then her shoulder and then she just presses her hand to the spot right over Santana’s heart.  “I just,” she says again but doesn’t say anything else.

 

“Oh, Brittany,” Santana says, but very kindly.  “Don’t worry about that.”

 

Brittany sniffs, just once.  “Okay,” she says, and that’s that.  She pushes herself up to sitting, and Santana kneels next to her on the chair. 

 

Brittany tilts her head.  “I have a better idea than the hose.”

 

“Yeah?” Santana thinks she’ll always remember Brittany like this, naked and golden and as beautiful as any statute ever carved or any painting ever painted or any song ever sung.

 

Brittany springs up, knocking Santana off balance so Santana falls back into the grass.  “Last one to the shower owes me a massage!”  Brittany takes off towards Santana’s house—streaking naked across the yard—at a full sprint.

 

Santana’s back on her feet in a second, calling out, “That doesn’t even make any sense!”

 

Brittany gets to the door first, of course, and just before she slips through it she turns and smiles.  “Makes perfect sense if you’re _me_ ,” she says.

 

Santana laughs and follows her inside.


End file.
